


Every Me, Every Him

by thedoctorslostcompanion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt, First Meeting, I swear I'm not fucked up, I've no idea what I'm doing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Knifeplay, LMAO, Lots of Hurt, M/M, Masochism, Moriarty Is A Dick, Most definitely, Multi, Origins, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potatoes, Sadism, Slow Burn, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, as he's meant to be, dubious everything, everyone LIKES dick too, everyone's a dick, is moriarty human, moran is a dick, most probably, oh boy this is gonna be wild, prepare yourselves for a wild ride, sebastian as a completely fucked up individual, sebastian definitely is, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-01-30 16:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12657633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedoctorslostcompanion/pseuds/thedoctorslostcompanion
Summary: Sebastian Moran was never one for destiny, that was just shit for people who read horoscopes and went to bed before 9pm. All he wanted was blood, booze, and sex. That was until Jim Moriarty, most dangerous man in London, came along.The debauchery was then served with a side of murder.





	1. Blood and Whiskey

_Fuck._ Sebastian picked at the shards that had lodged themselves in his hand. Blood ran free from his rough, beaten skin. Somehow, breaking a glass didn’t have the same effect it used to. There were no inferior officers to scare now, no women to woo - just a couple of shadowy men in the grimiest pub South London had ever seen.

Still, he did it. The pain didn't really register anymore. If anything, the mess was the annoying part. Sebastian had never been good at cleaning up after himself. He left that shit to the people paid to do it. 

He toyed at the blood blossoming from his reopened scars. Even though the dirt of the Middle East had long since gone from his skin, Sebastian found himself staring at his hands as though it had never left. War was a stain he couldn't scrub off with cheap soap. 

"Fuck the Queen,” a younger Sebastian used to say. He was never one for political correctness, even with the noble shit that came with the Moran name – no number of manor houses, Eton educations and abusive fathers could change that. When Colonel Sebastian Moran said the same words ten years later, his meaning didn't change. He wasn't ready to lay down his life and surrender himself for some old person with a posh title. He did that enough as a kid. 

They couldn’t scrounge together enough incriminating evidence on Colonel Moran to dishonourably discharge him. People knew that he liked fire. People knew he messed about. People also knew that he wasn't opposed to having a man now and then. But these were only the people he was fucking. His superiors had their suspicions, but never caught him in the act. If Colonel Moran learned anything from the pathetic excuse of a childhood he had at the Moran estate, it was how to hide. What they thought they knew about the stealing, the damaging, the local women and the army men, they couldn’t prove. 

Colonel Moran was honourably discharged, but Sebastian was anything but honourable.

He gestured to the man behind the bar for another drink. It was a stretch to call him a bartender, for he had a face smeared with dirt and silence replacing human speech. When the man did not respond, he grew irritated. Slightly drunk and highly strung, Sebastian was in no mood to be fucked with. He reached backwards for his jacket which hung upon the barstool, and clumsily found its inner pocket. It took all of two seconds for Sebastian to grab his knife and throw it into the bar shelf. Even though he was inebriated, it was a perfectly symmetrical hit.

 _Still got it, you filthy bastard_ , Sebastian thought to himself.

The barman was unperturbed. He turned to look at Sebastian with an expression that faintly registered amusement. A short, lithe man with hair as dark as coal, his mouth twisted into a smirk for half a second and then returned to its former state. But Sebastian caught it. 

Sebastian was slid another Jameson, neat, served in the dirtiest glass imaginable. It did not take him long to empty it. He grabbed his jacket and went to leave, but turned around and said to the barman,

"You can keep that, kitten."

He gestured to the knife wedged in the wood. In such a dodgy place, it wasn't bound to be the first of its kind. Receiving not even a glance from the man, he turned on his heel, and with that, Sebastian Moran was out into London’s cold November air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is gonna be a long fic, I can feel it. The first few chapters are Sebastian-heavy, but oops I love him


	2. Shrinks and Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sebastian has to visit a fucking psychologist. Fucking and psychology both included.

Sirens upon sirens woke Sebastian from his sleep. No, sleep wasn’t the right word. Sleep was something people did. People with lives, with families to go home to and a dog to pat and a wife to fuck. Sleep wasn’t for Sebastian, it didn’t come to him. What he did was mechanical, empty. He was a computer system in desperate need of an update, and Sebastian was never good with technology.

He threw his arm behind him, thumping the bedside table in a desperate, half-dazed search for cigarettes. He’d be damned if he couldn’t have a morning smoke. With no naked woman from drunken escapades lying next to him, a hit of tobacco would patch his morning cravings, however shabbily.

Before he could light a cigarette, Sebastian's alarm clock began to ring. Yes, he still had an alarm clock. Apart from the fact that he was shit broke after being discharged, he found a certain charm in old technology - none of that iPhone shit. Sebastian's half-asleep brain struggled to remember what he had set the alarm for.  _Work?_  Didn't do that anymore.  _Friends?_  Had none. Eventually he remembered that it was his third session with some lady psychologist – fuck it if he remembered her name. Because he wasn’t dishonourably discharged, Sebastian’s appointments weren’t completely regulated. Instead, they were more of a ‘suggestion’ to help him adjust to the ‘shock’ of re-entering civilian life. He still went, though, humouring the psychologist and her talks about 'trauma' and 'culture-shock' and 'triggers'. Sebastian knew that she would have heard some shit from piss-weak, emotional soldiers, so he let her carry on pretending that no returned soldier actually enjoyed the murders they were authorised to carry out. She had probably seen some shit, though. Broken legs, shattered souls.

After all, war scars everyone, eventually. 

Walking to the appointment, Sebastian stared at the common people around him. How many of them had ever felt the power in toting a gun? How many of them could say they knew what it was like to kill a man? _One hundred and sixty-five confirmed kills._ To feel the rush? Not many. He almost felt sorry for them. They were boring. They were ordinary. 

Dark haired and early thirties, the psychologist certainly was attractive, and paired with her Irish accent, definitely Sebastian’s type. Shame she was so invested in talking so much, for Sebastian would’ve liked nothing more than to fuck her on that desk where she wrote down every single fucking thing he said. To fill her mouth with his cock so she couldn't ask anymore stupid fucking questions. 

"Sebastian, how was your relationship with your father?”

Laughing, Sebastian turned his head to gaze out of the office window. A dreary grey scene greeted him. That’d be right. Despite the turbulence of his anger and his lust and his fucking life, London would always be there to welcome him with bloody pissing rain.  _Great_. Realising the psychologist was still waiting for his answer, Sebastian took a swig of his drink to prepare himself for what he was going to say.

“Splendid,” he said with the strongest air of sarcasm imaginable, “my daddy and I had a lovely connection, and every Sunday we went to church together and baked cookies to sell at our local charity drive for sick puppies with three legs. Fucking hell, honestly. What do you want me to say?”

The words burned through Sebastian’s mouth. Even lying as sarcastically as he was, it pained Sebastian to imagine a relationship with his father that was marked by love, not scars and bruises.

Somewhere in the city, a clock chimed midday. He looked at Jane –  _wait, what was her name? Jane? Janet? Janine_  -  and ran his hand through his hair. Sebastian imagined what hers would feel like, balled in his fist. It had been a while since he had last had sex, because tugging himself off in the shower certainly didn’t count. Sebastian thought that was a sign to use the charm he had acquired as a Moran. At least some good would come from mention of his family name. Besides, she really was just his type.

Sebastian flashed one of the infamous Moran smiles at Janine. Her usually sturdy expression shattered, and she blushed, quickly averting her eyes. Just like every other girl. _Pathetic_. If Sebastian’s moral compass wasn’t bent so far out of shape, he might have felt a twang of pity for her. If he was the polite gentleman he was raised to be, he might have just stayed silent. But it wasn't. But he wasn't. 

"You know," Sebastian started, running his eyes across her mouth, "you really do have very pretty eyes. I've never seen such dark eyes with so much life in them."

He hated that line. He hated the easiness. There was no chase with women, Sebastian knew this. As a teenager, he had girls fawning over him wherever he went. At the age of 17, Sebastian had the body of a Greek god, and his wealth and charm only added to the favour he held with women. Every girl he’d ever fucked held some wild fantasy in their minds of Sebastian being the perfect husband, with each dreaming of creating beautiful blonde children with him. Fuck that – Sebastian couldn’t be tamed. Tigers can’t be tamed. And now, returning from war as a scarred veteran who fought for the bullshit of Queen and fucking country, Sebastian was even more adored. Like he was a fucking prize to collect, a piss weak soldier haunted by hurting some people.

Didn’t they know that Sebastian liked to burn things? He would burn the shelf they tried to put him on – he would burn everything.

It didn't take long for Janine to fling herself onto Sebastian. In a mash of torn buttons and exposed skin, he had her thrown over the desk in the room. Sebastian hated mahogany. Pretentious, too much like the décor of the Moran estate. He grabbed a fistful of Janine’s hair to distract himself, and she moaned, so he pulled – hard. It was obvious she had been pining over Sebastian since the start of their sessions, and professionalism went out the window when two people were desperately craving a fuck.

And a fuck she got. 

As Janine lay splayed on the desk, overcome with the post-sex high, Sebastian stood up straight. Zipping up the fly of his jeans, he walked over to the window. The dirty city was still there, a stain upon the sky. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. 

"D'ya mind?" he said, waving the pack in the air. Janine was unfazed. 

"See you next week, then," she called to him as he began to walk out of the office. Sebastian just laughed.

"Doubt it, love." 

He walked back to Janine, and as she lifted her head to him, brushed beside her to reach for his jacket, strewn across the armchair. Like fuck he was going back for seconds. 

It was storming as Sebastian exited the office onto a busy London street. _Absolutely pissing down_. Out of the corner of his eye, Sebastian saw something slowly move in his direction. He shrugged and kept walking. It was fucking freezing outside, and something that was or wasn’t there wasn’t going to stop Sebastian on his way to the pub. Turning into a crowded side street, he was steadily approaching his grimy drinking establishment. As he passed a Primark full of fucking Christmas shoppers, Sebastian could've sworn he saw a surveillance camera turn to face him.  _Christ._ He really needed a drink. _Or seven._  As he pulled open the door to the pub, Sebastian saw something again from the corner of his right eye. Stepping into the doorframe, the door began to swing shut, and just before it did, Sebastian had his suspicions confirmed - his eyes locked onto a CCTV camera, turned to stare him down.

The door closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I promise Moriarty will make his first proper appearance soon, but now, have another dark-haired Irish person. I'd like to think that CAM wasn't the only bad boy Janine was connected to, and that she had other career prospects before working for him. Who knows, maybe she'll pop up again...


End file.
